Time To Write Again...It's been a long time since I last posted here. I've been working, but I don't feel I've been living. I'm coming up on four years in New York City now and while it's been a great experience, I definitely haven't tasted the flavors this place offers. Waking up this morning, the first thought to hit my groggy brain was that I've lived most of my life thinking in terms of what I'm not instead of thinking in terms of what I can do. I'm not rich enough, I'm not good looking enough, I'm not successful in my endeavors, I'm not skinny enough, I'm not athletic enough, I don't do enough, I don't write enough, I don't travel enough, I don't see enough...
Enough is enough...
I realized quickly that when I used to write each day, I would randomly receive emails and comments from friends and strangers that something I did write hit home with them. That always felt good. It gave me a purpose, a small one, but a purpose for being here. At one point, I fell into what could be called a 'rut' where my purpose was to pay rent, eat, sleep, work, pay more rent, eat more, sleep more, work more. Writing was eventually pushed off my plate, brushed off the table to the floor and swept under the rug.
I kept thinking that I would get back to it once I was "more" instead of "not enough" in so many areas of life. So what triggered the change that I'm writing once again? I'm not entirely sure. For a long time I've felt the need but didn't have the "spark" to login and post here. Today, while going out for morning coffee, I passed by an older man standing in an alcove looking at the sky and mumbling. He appeared to be homeless but I've also seen him acting as sort of a part-time super for the next building over when they tore up and redid the sidewalk surrounding the building.
It was cold out, yet he had no gloves and his light winter jacket wasn't zipped. I got my coffee, returned home, warmed up, went through my mail. It was 10 a.m. After a spell and considering it's a Saturday, I decided on a refill of coffee. I went back out, taking the same route. The man is still there. Still looking up at the sky. Still mumbling. His hands are bare while mine are shoved into my pockets to stay warm for the two minute walk. I'm not sure how he's not frozen to the core. He's holding a plastic grocery bag in his gritty left hand.
The questions start bubbling up - "what does he see that I don't?" "who is he speaking to?" "how many hours can he stand out here in this weather, talking with someone in the sky?"
The first emotional answer which comes to mind is empathy for someone who's lost their mind to hallucinations. The second answer which comes to mind is that perhaps at a certain point the brains of certain people go beyond rent, sleep, eating, working and they are released into a freedom unknown to those of us stuck in the "rut" of existing instead of living. What if we're the crazy ones? What if we're the blind ones who only see the grindstone to which we've pressed our noses? What if there is something more if we just stop, stand, let go and look? Is there a brain cell which has the sole purpose of blocking out those things beyond the daily grind? Could it be that this man sees reality more than I do? Could it be that what he is looking at and who he is talking to is real and the reason he sees this reality is because he somehow drank away the brain cell that had blocked out another dimension to which he can now communicate with?
I come back with my refilled coffee to my small apartment that is not "big enough" where just hours ago I wished there was "something more" to life. I sit down to write because of a man who can obviously see something more in the sky than I can. With the second coffee beginning to work away the last of my grogginess, I feel thankful. Thankful that real or not, there must be "something more" instead of "not enough" which that man could see well enough to cause him to skip the cold reality of where he was in order to step into a place where he could converse for hours with the sky and not be affected by the here and now.
I'm thankful that I'm writing again, by stepping away from the here and now that has held me prisoner for more than a year and setting about to do what I can be and do, rather than what I am not or have not done. If he can stand in the cold for hours talking to the sky, I can stand the in the rut, look up and out... and begin to write again. Perhaps the way out is not to continue along by walking further down this rut, but the way out is to stop and look up at the sky above.
Inspired by a man most would consider crazy? Possibly. Inspired by a man who actually sees something more to life? Possibly. In the end, does it really matter? Probably not. What matters (to me at least) is that I've wanted to write for a long time and now I am. Regardless of the reason, I feel that having my creative wheels in motion again is what matters (to me at least). It's my hope that perpaps someone reading this who has felt the same can relate and as a result find what matters (to them at least.)
I'll close with my current favorite quote by Markus Pierson: "That many had ventures farther and done so in finer style bothered me not. My journey was my own and I found it to be quite spectacular."